The Godfather, part 2 475
by TheEmperor
Summary: Is this the only piece of Godfather fan fiction on this site? Very well then! FINALLY UPDATED!
1. The Adams Family

"The Godfather, part 2.475"

A Godfather fan fiction by TheEmperor

DISCLAIMER:  I don't own any of the characters from the Godfather.  Please don't sue me or send any Mafia-style goons to flatten my lips.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  I love The Godfather.  This is my first actual fic about characters from my very favorite movies of all time!!!  It's supposed to be funny…

*Please read and review this story.  I love reviews.  I really like reviews that tell me how I could improve a story.  If you see something you think I could improve, please tell me about it.  I write these things for fun and other people's enjoyment, so I need feedback.*

Chapter One

            "The Adams Family"

            The house of Martha and Arthur Adams, situated in bland middle-class New England suburbia, was literally one and a half stories tall and cluttered with easily breakable figurines, Reader's Digest Condensed Books, and misplaced Gideon's Bibles.  The roof, covered in cheap black shingles, sloped upward lazily.  The tiny porch was supported by four fat, white, square columns, and the façade had been partially painted at various times in different shades of brown.  The house was set on a hill, so the yard was practically worthless.  Martha Adams had planted it with a ground cover that looked suspiciously like common, garden-variety weeds.  

            It hadn't changed at all, except for the addition of a new black and white television set to the already crowded living room.  Kay Adams was thankful.  It reminded her of a simpler time, a more innocent time, a time when her life wasn't filled with misery, sorrow, and hatred.  There was only one thing that hadn't changed that Kay had always thought could use a bit of improvement.  That was her mother's pot roast.

            "It's so nice to have you home," Martha Adams exclaimed, sliding a portion of oddly colored pot roast and several pink potatoes onto her daughter's plate.  

            Martha conveniently avoided mentioning the word divorce.  That was the reason her daughter had returned home, but Martha had grown up in a time when young girls weren't taught the meaning of that word.  Martha herself still wasn't quite sure what it meant, so she thought it best to avoid the topic.  Her husband, Arthur Adams, the sort of man who began to wrinkle at twenty and now bore an uncanny resemblance to a raisin, lacked his wife's discretion.  

            "Dammit girl!  What did you get a divorce for?  He wasn't such a bad guy.  I met him a couple times, and I am a damn fine judge of character!"

            Kay stared at the pot roast and the viscous gunk clinging to it looking as though someone had used the meat as a make-shift tissue.  There had to be a polite way to avoid eating it.  Her mother had always been one of those 'eat everything on your plate and you're not leaving the table until you do' mothers.  Kay doubted things had changed.  When she was a little girl she had always fed unwanted food to the family dog, something that had probably contributed to the poor beast's early death.  

            "Why the first time I set eyes on him," Arthur continued, struggling to cut his piece of pot roast with a blunt knife, "I said, now there is a fine young man.  There is a man deserving of taking my beloved Kay's hand in marriage.  My Kay, the girl I poured my heart and soul into raising up right.  The girl her mother and I turned into a fine young woman."  He sawed away at the pot roast.  The meat and the knife were locked in a deadly struggle, neither willing to give in.  Sadly, the meat seemed to be winning.

            "Oh Arthur be quiet and eat your dinner!" Martha snapped.  "Don't start that old argument again.  I just think it's lovely to have Kay home again."

            "You mother's always say that!  No one ever thinks of the fathers.  No one thinks of how hard we worked for out children, to give them the things the needed.  No, all I hear about these days is this stupid mother/daughter bonding crap!"

            Martha frowned.  "Arthur, don't use the word 'crap' at the table.  It's rude."

            "I'm the head of this house, dammit!  I'll say whatever words I want to say at the table.  This is my table.  It was all my years of work, all the blood, the sweat, and the tears that I shed in service of my fellow man that bought you this table.  So, it's my table and I'm gonna say crap as many times as I damn well please.  Crap!  There, Martha, I said it, and you know what.  I think that I just might say it again.  Crap."

            Martha just sighed and rolled her eyes behind her thick, plastic-framed glasses.  Kay didn't say anything.  She had never enjoyed fighting and regardless of the ridiculousness of her parent's bickering Kay derived no pleasure from listening.  

            "My damn table."

            "Actually, Arthur, this is the table we inherited from my grandmother," Martha reminded her husband.

            Arthur was silent for a while, scrambling for an answer.  Finally he stated, "Still, it's in my house.  It's my damn table."  

            They ate the rest of the meal in complete, total, absolute, inclusive silence.  Kay looked at her mother, who was the only one thoroughly enjoying the pot roast, then at her father, who had given up on the knife and moved on to the green beans.  She smiled.  No, nothing had changed.  Nothing could ever change in the little world populated only by herself, her parents, and their little collection of eccentric elderly neighbors.  Finally, she was home.  Everything would go back to the way it had been before, before she had ever heard of the Mafia, and Senate Hearings on Organized Crime, and (Kay shivered) Michael Corleone. 


	2. Smiles, Sunshine, and Turi Guliano

Chapter Two

            "Smiles, Sunshine, and Turi Guliano"  
  


            Julie Grim, bank teller, smiled her broad, happy smile, and handed her latest customer a freshly printed certificate of deposit.

            "Thank your for choosing This-State-Only Bank!"

            "Eh," Arthur Adams grumbled.  What was with these new bank tellers?  They were all smiles and sunshine.  For some reason, Arthur did not think that smiles and sunshine meshed well with his current financial situation.

            "Why are you people so damn happy all the time?" Arthur asked.

            Julie Grim's perfect smile twitched a bit, but didn't fail her.

            "Well, sir, here at This-State-Only-Bank we like to put on a happy face, in hope that we will spread our happiness on to our customers.  This-State-Only-Bank is dedicated not only to our customer's financial security but to their happiness as well."

"I don't like people who want to mess with my emotions.  I'll be happy if I feel like being happy.  Going to the bank doesn't make me happy.  I don't care how much the bank tellers smile, I'm still not gonna be happy.  Dammit, I'm not happy here!"

"That's obvious, sir."

"You're damn right it's obvious!  Ever since my daughter left the rich fellow she was married to we've been dirt poor!  Do you hear me, dirt poor!  I was gonna retire in Florida!  I was gonna have my own little strip of beach!  Dammit, I was gonna have a yacht!  Now look at me, I don't have Florida, I don't have my beach, and I don't have yacht!  All I have is this miserable little town with its smiling bank tellers!  On top of that my good-for-nothing daughter has moved back in with us so my wife can only afford to make pot roast once a week, and I like pot roast!  I want my pot roast!  Dammit, I want my pot roast!"

Everyone in the bank, tellers and fellow residents of Arthur's 'miserable town', were staring.  Two old women who were waiting patiently for their penny collections to be counted remarked that the Adamses had always been a strange people and that they had only gotten stranger since their daughter had married into that foreign family from New York.  People from New York were strange enough, but foreign people from New York were to be avoided at all costs.

"Sir," Julie Grim whispered.  "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to ask you to leave.  You're making a scene."

Arthur Adams wadded up the deposit receipt and jammed it into the pocket of his brown pants.  As much as he wanted to tell Julie Grim that this was his town and his bank and that he had the right to make any damn kind of scene he wanted to, Mr. Adams knew that the bank employed a couple of very large, very scary guards who were quick to throw out anyone who dared cause a disturbance.  He had been thrown out on several previous occasions.  

Leaving the bank Arthur returned to his car, a dented blue Packard, and spent a few minutes starting it.  He drove downtown to the local VFW Post.  That was where he always ate breakfast in the mornings.  Arthur hated the other old men.  They always wanted to bore him with stories about their problems.  Mr. Adams had too many problems of his own to talk about to bother listening to other people talk about theirs.  The only real reason he was fond of having breakfast at the VFW was because it was free, and because Martha was such a late sleeper that by the time she got around to fixing breakfast it was well past lunch time. 

The local VFW Post was little more than a large multi-purpose room with a small stage that often featured local musical talent, most often Dr. Bill's Barbershop Boys.  Arthur had been a member of the group for a couple of days before Dr. Bill had realized that he had no singing talent.  In the mornings this room was littered with small folding tables, around which would gather all of the town's men who fit into the category of age sixty-five and above.

There was another table set with a buffet of various sorts of common breakfast foods prepared by the local widows, sausage, bacon, waffles, toast, and that mysterious southern staple, grits, prepared by the widow who had moved to town from Georgia.  Coffee was plentiful.  

Arthur filled his plate and took a seat with the four men in town that he considered his friends; Fred, the drugstore owner who was in charge of the Fourth of July Fireworks; Carl, a lineman for the county; George, the local NRA advocate; and the mayor's drunken brother, Vinny.  These four men stood out from the other seniors enjoying breakfast due to the fact that they were all wearing heavy black coats and gangster-style hats pulled down over their eyes.

"Here, Arthur," Carl whispered handing this friend a battered gray hat.  "You left this at my house after last week's meeting."

"Thanks."  Arthur took that had and put it on.  

Fred looked up from his breakfast and checked his watch.  "You're late.  Where have you been, Arthur?"

"The bank."

George laughed.  "Get thrown out again?"

"Not this time."

"What'd ya think of that new teller, Julie Grim.  She's somethin' else, eh?"  Vinny slurred.

"She's too damn happy," Arthur grumbled.  He took a sip of lukewarm black coffee.

"Well, now that everyone is here, I suppose we can begin the daily breakfast meeting of the Mafia Lovers of America Society," Fred announced.  "Now, as usual, our distinguished secretary, George, will read the minutes from the last meeting."

George spent several seconds shuffling through the contents of his pockets before producing a very crumpled piece of lined paper.  He smoothed it out as best he could before reading.  "Meeting was called to order at 9:39 a.m.  We ate breakfast and talked about how great the Mafia is for a bout fifteen minutes.  Arthur rambled on about how great it is that his daughter is married to a real Mafia guy.  The meeting was adjourned at 10:00 a.m., after which everybody went either home, to work, or to the bar."

"I was at the bar," Vinny remarked.

"Not bad," Fred concluded.  "Now, onto new business.  Does anyone have any new business?"

Arthur didn't say anything, he just chewed his powdered eggs and prayed that none of the other members would mention the little 'situation' involving his daughter.

"I think Arthur's got some new business," Carl announced.

"No, I don't have any new business," Arthur said defensively.

"Are you sure?  Isn't there the little matter of your daughter?"

There was a collective gasp from Fred, Vinny, and George.  

"What's happened to your daughter?" Fred asked quickly.

"She… she…," Arthur scrambled for a word that would make the situation sound a little better than it really was, but he only ended up as scrambled as his eggs.  "Dammit, she's my daughter and what happened to her is my business!  I shouldn't have to discuss that with you!  Who here is her father?  That's right!  I am!  And what my daughter does is between me and my daughter."

"She divorced the mob guy, didn't she?" Fred guessed.

"Yes, dammit!" Arthur exploded.

There were several minutes of confused silence.  It occurred to the five old men that the very backbone of the Mafia Lovers of America Society was that one of their members had an actual connection to the Mafia.  The minutes stretched into half an hour.  Coffee grew cold, eggs hardened.  It is highly likely that this awkward pause could have lasted nearly the entire morning had it not been interrupted by the appearance of a strange young man.  He had tanned skin, thick black hair, and muscles that bulged beneath a tight, white t-shirt.  The widows, who were busy clearing away dishes pointed and giggled as girlishly as seventy year-old women could. 

"Uh… excuse me, sir," the young man said to Arthur Adams.  "I am new to this country and I was wondering if you could help me."

"What… uh… oh yeah… sure, what is it?" Arthur asked, the silence finally broken.  "Who the hell are you anyway?  I've never seen you around here before?  Wait!"  A sudden realization dawned on Arthur.  "You're Italian!"

"Well… I'm a Sicilian actually…"

Unable to grasp the difference, Arthur continued.  "You must have been sent here to bring my daughter back.  Well, you're welcome to her.  Come with me, I start up the car and we'll be on our way!"

The young man blinked several times.  "I don't know anything about your daughter, sir.  I just arrived in this country today.  My name is Turi Guliano, and I am looking for an Arthur Adams."

"I'm Arthur Adams," Arthur barked.  "And I don't know any damn Guliano.  Are you with the international coalition of Mafia fan clubs?"

Turi was thoroughly confused.  "No… I'm looking for Michael Corleone.  I was hoping that you might have some idea as to where I might find him, Mr. Adams."

"Corleone?  You mean my son-in-law!  Yeah, I know where you can find him.  He lives out in Nevada, Lake Tahoe, Nevada… I think."


	3. The Curse

Chapter Three  
  
~The Curse~  
  
"For the last time, Connie, there is no such thing as a curse!" Michael Corleone exclaimed.  
  
The head of the invincible Corleone Family crime empire elbowed his lawyer, Tom Hagen, who was inching too close to his desk space. The desk was monstrous, as far as desks go, but not quite big enough to comfortably seat three adults and two children.  
  
"There is too!" Michael's sister Connie retorted, inching further toward the center of the desk as muddy lake water lapped at her near-priceless designer high heals. "And we are cursed!"  
  
The Corleone Family lived by the lake, or to be more specific, they HAD lived by the lake. Several days previous, it had started to rain. Now, the Corleone Family, found themselves living IN the lake.  
  
"We are not cursed," Michael insisted. "Both Tom and I are educated men. We went to college. And we know there is no such thing as a curse. Isn't that right Tom?"  
  
The lawyer said nothing.  
  
"Isn't that right, Tom?" Michael asked again, in a slightly more unpleasant tone.  
  
"You never should have killed Fredo," Hagen muttered.  
  
"For the record," the head of the Corleone family explained, "I did not kill Fredo. Neri killed Fredo, I just gave the order."  
  
"It's the same thing!" Hagen spat.  
  
"Consider yourself lucky that the guns are over there in the filing cabinet. Otherwise, I wouldn't put up with you talking back to me like that."  
  
The members of the Corleone family sat in silence for several minutes. The rain continued to fall, and the room slowly continued to fill with murky water. Tom Hagen peered out of the window at the giant black cloud that had settled itself over the Corleone Family's lakeside residence. The sun was shining not so far away, over the neighbor's house actually.  
  
"You know, it really is too bad that the guns are in the filing cabinet. After all, how hard could it been to construct a lifeboat from a couple of dead bodies?" Michael wondered out loud.  
  
"It really is too bad that lightening struck the boathouse," the lawyer sighed.  
  
"It's proof that we are cursed!" Connie cried. "It won't stop raining, the house is flooded, lightening struck the boat house destroying our only means of escape, the phones are dead, and the mailman hasn't come for a whole week!"  
  
"Connie, the mailman stopped coming three years ago," Michael reminded her. "Certainly you haven't forgotten that incident."  
  
"I haven't," Tom grumbled. "Hey, maybe this rain will finally wash the blood stains off the sidewalk. Those were making the place look bad."  
  
"Aunt Connie, why don't we just swim out of here?" Michael's son Anthony inquired.  
  
"Well, we could swim out of here if a certain little boy's father had not stocked the lake with man-eating piranha!" Connie explained.  
  
"Don't start with that again, Connie. Those piranhas were a good idea at the time. Besides, Fredo used to enjoy fishing for them."  
  
As if on cue, there was a blinding flash of lightening, and a crack of thunder. The lights blinked, and then died completely plunging the room into semi-darkness.  
  
"Well this is just peachy!" Connie wailed.  
  
"Where is Guido?" Michael asked, checking his watch. "I sent him to try and find something we could use as a boat. That was at least an hour ago."  
  
"Maybe the piranhas got him," Connie suggested.  
  
Hagen checked his own watch. "It was precisely 42 minutes and 13 seconds ago, and knowing Guido he's probably still trying to figure out what a boat is."  
  
Guido was Michael's bodyguard. It had often been said of Guido that he possessed slightly-less-than-the-acceptable-minimum of intelligence.  
  
"I didn't hire him for his brains, Tom," Michael said. "I hired him because he's seven feet wide and three feet taller than me."  
  
There was a faint knocking sound at the door. All five people crowded on the desktop jumped, nearly sending Connie toppling into the water.  
  
"I'll bet it's Fredo's ghost!" Connie whispered to her brother once she had repositioned herself and was no longer in danger of becoming lunch for the piranhas. "He's come to kill us!"  
  
"I wouldn't worry, Connie," Tom Hagen laughed. "If the ghost of Fredo has come to kill anyone, it'll kill Michael."  
  
"And Michael's first buffer layer in the chain of command," the Don smiled evilly. "The one who gave the order to Neri, remember?"  
  
The door swung open, slowly of course, seeing as the entire house was full of water. Sitting in a small rowboat was Arthur Adams, accompanied by the mysterious Turi Guliano.  
  
"I am not taking your daughter back!" Michael Corleone snarled.  
  
"Oh, that's a great thing to say to someone who can save us," Tom Hagen sighed.  
  
"Are you Michael Corleone?" Guliano inquired, stepping out of the boat and swimming over the desk.  
  
"I'd get back in that boat," the lawyer warned. "That water is full or piranha."  
  
Guilano's eyes widened.  
  
"What sort of crazed maniac would stock a lake with piranha?"  
  
"Oh maybe the sort of crazed maniac who would kill his own brother and bring a curse down upon us," Connie answered, pointing to her brother.  
  
Despite the fact that he had met some very evil people in his time and fought bravely to steal from the wealthy and given to the poor peasants of Sicily, Turi Guliano gulped. The only hope for his country's salvation stocked lakes with piranha. 


End file.
